The Mat

This is our wrestling mat.

It isn’t much to see.

Sort of furrowed yet flat.

The number of soles it has held has given it a soul.


Often I have slumbered on him.

Hard to others, gentle to me.

We beat his chest to a rhythmic hymn,

“No prisoners! No mercy! Meet me on the mat, it’s going down!”


Too old for the child’s games

My time has passed.

So I walk on this mat my core aflame

Time to satiate the youth’s brains until they are left aghast.


Worry not mat your time is far.

I will soon leave this Earth.

But don’t miss me, the world is bazaar.

Soon it will be the youth’s time. A new generation they will birth.


Will they look at you the same?

Will they see me in you?

Will they give you a well-deserved name?

I hope that they stay true, and do what they ought to.


Lights out for now my venerable friend.

I’ll mop you tomorrow.

Respite for now, this is our end.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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